


Another Dark Night in Gotham

by deltatell1942



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Original Character(s), POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltatell1942/pseuds/deltatell1942
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A girl in Depression-torn Gotham attracts the attention of a man whose life she saves in one of Gotham's many decrepit alleyways. The man's name? Bruce Wayne. But this isn't going to get her the reward she's hoping for. [Original character POV of a dystopia-like Gotham. Will be Dick Grayson/OFC.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The soles of my sneakers, worn down to smooth rubber, don’t echo in the dark alleyways.

At least, I hope not. I skirt a circle of yellow pavement illuminated by a streetlamp, staying close to the bumpy, grimy brick wall to my right. Not that I have anything to hide, but, well – it’s always best to keep to the shadows.

I always find Gotham’s bricks comforting –their solidity, I guess, or just familiarity. If I ever left this town and found myself in a wide-open space, I’d probably have a panic attack.

I think there’s a word for that, and I try to remember it idly as my eyes flick in constant motion, assessing each crevice and darkened corner I approach. I couldn’t tell you how many delinquents probably sit lurking in the decrepit alleyways, guarding a bit of garbage-filled filth they call their territory.

Ugh – the body of a dog lays on the sidewalk against a wall, one of its hind legs ripped away by some other animal. It smells putrid, but that’s almost unidentifiable among all the other smells in this part of the city. I try to inhale less as I pass. I love this city, god knows I do, but it’s easier to love with a bit of willful ignorance.

I duck into a doorway when a cop car rolls slowly down an intersecting street. Its used-to-be-white paint gets illuminated briefly by a yellow streetlamp, then the soft sound of its motor fades away. It’s silent now - not counting the usual dog barks and distant sirens, of course.

Sometimes, after he's had so many beers he looks like he’s going to slump right off his chair, Dad talks about days when he was a cop. He used to patrol Robinson Park and the City Hall District, back before I was born, before Mom – ended up as she did.  
I’ve never seen days like that, but I've heard stories. Money in the banks, books in the libraries, buses and people and buildings bursting with life like fresh fruit in a fruit stand. When police maintained order in Gotham, and the sidewalks weren’t just dirty homes to about half its population.

But that’s just what my Dad talks about. These days, I hear other stories - and I wouldn’t tell no one at school, but – I like these stories best. The ones about Batman.

I hear them mostly from Dad’s cop buddies. Or from sketchy punks on the street, speaking in hushed voices like talking about Batman might make him real. None of them want to believe. I don’t think the cops want to either, but – sometimes I picture this guy, this masked avenger, I heard someone call him, swooping around Gotham, throwing down vengeance and whoop-ass on bad guys like the dude from the Phantom of the Opera. Less pervy, though. 

I’m wondering how he gets around town when I hear a faint groan from across the street. I freeze for a bare half-second before hunching down beside a stoop and listening. I stare intently into the dark, but - it’s just an old dumpster-diver moaning in his sleep.

Stupid, I rebuke myself. Need to stay more alert.

I do a cursory sweeping glance before continuing on. The next wall I pass is covered in graffiti, a spiky, lurid green across the top and sloppy red across the bottom. It’s so fresh it’s dripping – could be a new gang tag. I try to decipher it as I approach, and – shit. That’s not paint. It’s blood.

I freeze. No noise, no noise, and find the quickest way out of here - stat. It’s not more than two seconds before I hear them. Maybe two guys, in an alleyway to my right. I creep forward a few paces forward and there they are, three guys taunting an old man. One has a knife. One has – yep, that’s a gun. I’m out of here.

I move toward a fire escape ahead and to my left, keeping my eyes on the scene. The old man doesn’t say anything, just stands in the middle of the alley while the thugs taunt him. The knife-wielding one is twisting his hand back and forth, letting the flight flash on the blade. The old dude’s stooped over with age, hunched in on himself. I wonder if he’s crying.

Of all things, the thought of that pathetic old man crying is what stops my hand from grabbing the ladder rung in front of me. I pause, hand outstretched, debating.

Three guys. No one else is in sight, meaning that they’re on their own, and not gangbangers. I can take three guys. Right?  
Right.

I stoop, grabbing a piece of broken brick from the ground, and heade toward the nearest mugger. My worn sneakers don’t make a sound. Keeping all three in view, I rear back and take careful aim at the one with the gun.  
Over the years, a series of dares, bets and a mean competitive streak have given me something of a killer throwing arm, if I do say so myself. The brick nails the fucker in the temple, and he goes down with a sickening thud that, to tell the truth, makes me nervous. Hope I didn’t kill him.

The other two jerk and start for my corner, but I’d already dashed to the right while they were watching their friend collapse like a sack of meat. I snap a quick kick, and Mr. Knife-fighter goes down, too, moaning loudly and clutching at his groin. He’s not down for the count, but his eyes aren’t focused, at the very least, so that just leaves the third.

He’s not a smart one. He rushes at me with a hand outstretched, and I simply grab his middle finger, snapping it back towards him with full force. He utters a high-pitched squeal and recoils, leaving his middle wide-open for a good old-fashioned punch to the gut. One more right-hand jab to the nose leaves him bloody and on all fours.  
I pivot to the old man – he’s quite a bit younger than I’d thought, actually – and grab his arm. “Let’s go!” I bark, rushing for the mouth of the alley.

“I could have handled it myself,” he says, sounding almost put out. But he follows and we make a break for it, dashing through the opposite alley and down Colleen Street, where we stop to catch our breath in a lighted intersection. Here in the light, I can see him better. He’s not old at all, really – maybe not as old as my dad, even. He looks better kept, though. Jet black hair, wide shoulders, a quality suit under that trenchcoat. Still – it’s not like a middle-aged banker could have taken on three muggers. I wonder what happens now.

“Well,” I begin, panting a bit. “You should be okay, now, I guess–”

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” He says bluntly. He doesn’t sound shaken at all.

“I don’t know…” I don’t see any need to give information about myself to strangers. “Here and there, friends and stuff…” I gesture vaguely, like I picked up fighting from a streetlamp or something.

The guy turns looks back at where we came from, where, hopefully, the muggers have scattered to their little hidey-holes. He’s caught his breath quicker than I did. I’m starting to decide this was all a mistake, and am composing an awkward exit when he speaks.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh…” I decide there’s no harm in the truth, this time, really. “Sam.”

"I'm Bruce," he says, and sticks out his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

"Nice to meet you, Bruce," I say in a voice cheerful enough to be ironic.

"Where do you live?"

"Upper West Side," I lie. “By Tudor Park.” I think it’s smart to tell people you live in a rich neighborhood for two reasons. One, if people think you're rich, they treat you with more respect; and two, it's about as far as you can get from where I do live.

He looks at me another moment. "No, you don't.”

I’m opening my mouth to respond when it dawns on me. He's a cop. That’s why he said he could have handled that himself, and why he’s calling me on my crap about the UWS. Well, shit. Anywhere near a cop is nowhere I want to be.

I quickly eyeball the intersection we’re standing in. Ninth and East Colleen. Not bad; if I reach the roofs I could cut through Skyetown to the Lower District. And there ain’t no way this guy’s following me up to a rooftop.

"Yes, I do." I try to put some annoyance in my face, to distract him from how I’m shifting my weight to the ball of my left foot.

“I’m…” but then I can’t think of anything to say, so screw it.

I turn and leap atop a trash can, sending it crashing and banging as I grab the rail and scramble up to the first landing. Ow. The muscles in my armpits burn, and I bang my knee on the wrought iron bars. He isn’t gonna follow me, but just in case, I yank the ladder up behind me.

One flight, two flights, three – and I’m on the roof, keeping an eye out for low-hanging electrical wires as I sprint for the opposite edge. An easy leap carries me to the next building over. I love this, the night wind in my hair, the burn of – I skid to a halt.

“What the everloving – ” He’s there. He’s there, the guy from the alley, just standing on the roof in front of me – 

This has become all-out creepy as fuck and I pivot, scraping my fingertips on the cement rooftop as I reverse my direction at full speed. Please oh please don’t let this be a freak like the Joker, I’ve heard about things they do – 

I bang the access door, down the stairwell, going down so fast I feel like I’m jumping flights at a time. If I get low enough, maybe I could just jump – straight over the rail and down onto the lower floor. Then out the door and – I’m still planning the route in my mind when my heel misses the edge of a step. I sense my folly in slow motion, that is, until metal staircase rams into my lower lumbar and my head cracks against the railing.

I’m turning onto my stomach when I look up and see him. The dude, just a few steps above me. His wide shoulders look scary now under that trenchcoat, and with the bad lighting his face is in shadow. He just stands there, gazing down.

“Please –” I start, struggling to my feet and backing down the steps. I don’t know what to say, but fear starts making words come out. It’s embarrassing. I can feel more pain, though, in my thighs and calves and hips, and running down the rest of these stairs is going to be damned unpleasant.

"You're hurt," he says. He hasn’t moved.

“You better back the fuck off, man,” I challenge, pointing a finger, but even I can hear the tinge of fear in my voice.

Dammit, Sammy. You’re supposed to know better than this. You know better than to get involved in someone else’s problems. In Gotham, it’s all about survival. And yet here I am, saving some guy’s life who’s probably about to peel my face off with a razor or something.

Okay. Assess. My right knee doesn’t hold my weight as much as it should, but my left leg just feels banged up. I back up against the wall of the landing, trying to figure out how to get down to ground level. The guy approaches… I wish I had a knife…

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," he says. "My name is Bruce Wayne."

His tone actually sounds… normal, and I can tell he’s trying not to scare me. I need a moment to process those words.

“Bruce Wayne?” I echo.

He nods. “I think you should get that knee looked at.”

I stare at him, trying to comprehend that I’m standing in the stairwell of an abandoned building near Crime Alley with Bruce Wayne, the richest guy in – I don’t know, the richest guy in the world or something. Bruce Wayne?

“Bruce Wayne?” I say again, my voice cracking with disbelief.

No, wait – I see it now. From the pictures. The newspaper. Jet black hair, broad shoulders, a wide smile.

Dude. Dude. Screw survival, I just made the best move of my life. Bruce Wayne is a freaking billionaire. I try not to smile, but I can’t help it. My fortune is made, man. I straighten and look at him as he reaches the landing, coming to a stop just in front of me.

We stare into each other’s eyes. I wonder how to bring up the subject of reward money.

"So…Mr. Wayne. You sure you're okay? You didn't get hurt in that alley?"

"Yes, Sam, thank you, I'm fine." A proud little bubble swells in my chest – he remembered my name. Bruce Wayne.

"Okay, I just wanted to make sure – you know…" If I didn’t have an injury I would be shifting from foot to foot. This is just awkward. No mention of a reward, and why the hell was he chasing me across a rooftop…?

Grudgingly, I remembered that when I’d fought the muggers, I hadn't done it for money. Well, who needs his money. Alllll that cash he’s got, and Gotham worse than it’s ever been, and what does he do? Sit around that mansion and look for trophy wives, I guess. I suppress a sigh and turn to go.

"Well… nice to meet you, I guess. If you'll excuse me, I gotta go… it’s like, getting late.”

"Yes, of course. Thank you for your help, Sam. Have a good night."

I manage to get down the stairs and out the door without doing anything embarrassing like collapsing on my injured knee. I’d fought off three muggers, saved the life of the richest man in town, been chased across rooftops and fallen down the stairs – all just to limp home with some new bruises. When I reach the street, I stop and take a deep breath of Gotham air, pungent and dark and alive. Hell of a night.


	3. Chapter 3

“Shut. _Up_.” Laticia glares at me through shocked, narrowed eyes.

I feel my lips curl up in a smirk despite myself. “Yup.”

“Girl, you’re _shitting_ me.” The harsh sh sound is loud enough to attract Mr. Waters’s attention, who tosses an annoyed glare our way before returning to the book in his hand. Laticia lowers her voice and leans down toward me. “What was he like?”

“He had those big black eyebrows like he does in the pictures,” I answer. “And he was, like, bigger than I thought he’d be.” I frown, remembering the deep fear and shock of finding Bruce Wayne, he of the Playboy magazine, lying in wait for me on a seedy Gotham rooftop. “And kind of really weird.”

Dick Grayson shifts in his seat in front of me. I can tell he’s listening to our conversation. Pleased that he’s interested, I raise my voice enough to let him hear.

“Weird how?” Laticia is asking.

“Well he kinda… followed me.” I’m not sure how much I should say. “Like, I was running from him ‘cause I thought he was a cop–”

“ _Sam_. Would you like to end up with a second detention?” Mr. Waters is eyeing me over his glasses, brown mustache perched sternly over his pursed lips. I resist rolling my eyes.

“Sorry.” I say dully. Laticia and I exchange a look that means we’ll continue this after class.

Waters’s class is all about old wars and shit, stuff that has nothing to do with me, so I spend a lot of time looking out the window or at the back of Dick Grayson’s head. Where on earth did he get the name Dick? I mean, Richard, yeah, but why on earth would someone call themselves _Dick_? Like seriously.

I want to ask him but that’s not really something you ask someone you’ve only talked to, like, three times. And those were mostly about homework. Dick’s kind of a studywart, but it’s okay ‘cause he’s pretty cool. Even the other guys don’t make fun of his name too much.

“-leading cause of the Seven Years War –” I can tell class is over by how Mr. Waters raises his voice. He always has to talk over the screech of people pushing back their chairs and grabbing their backpacks and breaking out into conversation before he’s even done. Laticia and I make our way through the bottle-necked exit, making me feel like I’m in a subway station. They’ve pushed the number of kids in class to like 40 now that the old history rooms were shut down for the water leak. It’s a little bit better than trying to ignore the drip of water into a plastic bucket all hour, I guess.

“I gotta get to KJHS,” Laticia tells me over the chatter of the crowd. “Jimmy doesn’t have chess club today.”

“’Kay,” I call out. The crowd has already separated us, and I let myself be pushed down the wide school hallway toward the fire exit. The alarm doesn’t work, so I slip out and trot down the metal stairs, grabbing the peeled paint railing and hopping over the last few steps. Still one more period, but I have better things to do.

A small huddle of boys are trading paper in a corner of the overgrown lot, and I make a show of not looking at them as I pass by. I keep my eyes fixed in the other direction until I’m around the corner and heading toward the street. My pickup point today is Wayne Tower, smack in the middle of downtown, and I better get a head start if I want to avoid the $2.50 subway fee.

There’s a little bounce in my step as I head down 3rd ave towards Kennedy. Gotham can be delightful when it’s the afternoon and the sun is out and you’ve just left school for the day. It’s nearly fall, now, the days will be shorter and nights will start to feel unending. I love Gotham at night, though. Just for different reasons.

Autumn or no, Wayne Tower’s air conditioning is a breath of fresh air when I walk in. I walk across the shiny linoleum floor and try not to look desperately out of place in my ripped jeans and old scarlet Gotham High sweatshirt. I try not to fiddle with the string of my hoodie but end up doing it anyway.

Well-dressed people are zipping in and out of a little coffee shop in the lobby, like ordering a fancy espresso is just another essential task in their very important day. The hall echoes with the clack of a woman’s heels, the beep of a security door opening, the whoosh of the constantly revolving door. And yet, no talking, really. I can tell without looking that the security people behind the desk are eyeing me doubtfully.

I shove my hands in my sweatshirt pocket and wander into the coffee shop, trying for all the world to look like I just wandered in for an absurdly expensive drink. I can get coffee for, like, 80 cents at Manuelo’s down on 2nd, I think, as I gaze at the menu. $4.50 for a villacchino latte. That’s more than I can afford to spend on lunch – more than I’d like to spend on dinner, if I can help it.

My mind boggles that people would spend that much on this crap. As usual, my disbelief is colored with anger. Spending $5 goddamn dollars on a cup of milk with some artificial flavoring.

“Can I help you?”

I’m not surprised a security guard came over. I’m already preparing a story when I turn to face – _Bruce Wayne_. For a moment, I just stare, too taken aback to even remember that he asked me a question.

“It’s nice to see you again, Sam,” he’s acting polite and… diffident, totally different from how he was last night. Even his voice seems lighter, less stressed.

“Oh yeah,” I utter, trying to think of what a normal person would say in this situation. “Nice to see you too.” Ugh – awkward.

He looks amused, but nods toward the countertop. “Were you going to get something?”

“Umm, yeah,” I look back at the menu and realize I don’t even know what most of the words mean. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“How is your knee?”

“Way better,” I say, lifting my right leg and little and swinging it a little to demonstrate.

“Listen, I’m afraid I never properly thanked you last night. It was a very upsetting night for me, you see…”

But I’m not listening because, leaning against the far wall, by the trash cans, is a skinny guy in a scarlet beanie. He has one foot propped up behind him and is staring at the floor with disinterest. That’s my guy. Gotta be. But I can’t do squat with Daddy Warbucks here babbling on about, what, dinner?

“Dinner?” I echo, turning back to Wayne.

“If you would be interested. I could have Alfred prepare whatever you like, of course.”

I blink. Did I just agree to dinner with Bruce Wayne? I blink again. Did I just have reservations about having dinner with Bruce Wayne?

“Sure,” I say, giving him a real smile. At the very least, it’ll be an awesome meal. And a story to tell.


End file.
